I am a wanderer. I am familiar with how the Milky Way sets on the horizon, the way the universe dies, the language of the stars. Seen the world-top from pink clouds and sipped from stardust. Flirted with comets. I know that time is temporary. Yet the reminder burns as I place my fingers to the torrid dust, breathe the decay. The ground recoils at my touch. Echoes of my footfalls reverberate through the planet as if hollow. This is what they used to call Earth. I can tell it is lonely. Others like me have no desire to pay visit to this once blue-green pellet that sits in oblivion. A corner of its forgotten heliocentric system. Neglected. Its crevices— barren land and looming monsters that brokenly splutter black smoke. Never ending dunes of debris soft between my toes. This is a place God has abandoned. Thirst is foreign to me. Yet I am filled with it at the sight of these armageddon red skies and unabated sandstorms. Walking in solitude I explore slowly the sense of despair. Upon the one hundred and eighty fifth dune I encounter the silence dies. I feel it instantly. Whirr. Minuscule. Deafening. Whirr. Sun catches silver, watch as a little creature emerges from the yellow. It is metallic, a box on four wheels. Curious. Creature holds a flower. I greet it. Creature tilts its crane as if it were a child. “Robot.” It beeps hesitantly. “Robot.” Sand shifts under its wheels. Robot contemplates, then plants the rose into the ashes. “It will die,” I tell it. “No,” Robot replies. And after, I follow its trail. Whirr. As we cross the corpses, husks Of cities. Over hills Weathered rib cages of Earth. Robot keeps on planting. Whirr. Four letters engraved into its shell— I learn that its name is H O P E. H O P E is the legacy of mankind. Of an era now dead and buried. Charged with the adornment of an empty shell, tending to a sleeping garden. Patient With the await of a new age. “Why?” I ask. Why try? Life is dead. It will not come back. “One day.” H O P E replies. It continues to say this for fifty decades. One night, H O P E makes Fire. From night till dawn, I sit. Listening to its hiss, feeling its burn. I have not seen Fire before. Stings my insides as I breathe, bears a tang of poison and pure heat. It smells like life. Shadows against the walls of the cave, I am encapsulated in its dance. “Tell me about the humans.” I whisper. And it does. It spins me a history. Not of demise, misery, of their fall from grace. Not black fumes and broken glass on which we tread. But of Hope. It tells me of the beginning. The discovery of fire, the first man to see his reflection in these flames. Empires that rise and fall, the only thing they leave behind--their tales of love. It tells me of the humans’ loneliness. The yearning for a friend in the great big world outside. Daring to explore their tiny wedge of the universe. Featherlight innocence. Curiosity. It tells me of the battle they fought against themselves and lost. How they assembled a box on four wheels and named it H O P E allowed it to inherit the future. Cleanse Earth of their bones so that they may one day come home. H O P E waits for another century. Dutifully follows the sunrise. Everyday, lays a flower down. And everynight, pretends to watch the stars. But the stars do not shine for us, not here. Not through these walls of smoke, miles and miles. Not for this insignificant little robot. Some days, the ruins whisper to us. “Soon.” H O P E echoes. We arrive in a valley, once. What used to be a great, deep, raging river. Now stark, windswept jaws of stone open in a snarl at the ashen sky. H O P E falters for the first time. Whirr. “Look.” And so I do. The field of flowers seem out of place among the knife edge rocks and malicious gravel. But there it is. They wave at us. Yellow, pink, red. Too much color. Defiant under the eternal summer scorch, crawling up the ragged prison walls. Gently in the wind. Brilliant. “It is your garden,” I tell H O P E. Whirr. It sets a yellow blossom into the ground. It is hard to understand the rules in a world like this. A world that is Trial and error. Destruction, rinse and repeat. I do not understand H O P E but I begin to believe in it. When I leave, I take eight buds with me. I am a wanderer. Inconstant. But wherever the wind and the stars take me, I will plant these seeds of Hope. And I know that one day I will return. And I will see Earth bloom. Cover Photo Source: Dribbble.com

Dear Asian Youth, How often do you hear the words “other people have it worse” as a response to your expressions of discomfort or frustration? Though the intent of these words may have been positive - to remind you of how lucky you are and cease all negative emotions - it doesn’t necessarily make things a whole lot better. Why? Because this commonly-used ‘comfort phrase’, along with many others, actually neglects or invalidates the emotions of the person in distress. Telling a struggling person that others are in more unfortunate situations merely suggests that this person’s struggles are insignificant in comparison. You cannot compare a person’s unique experience to someone else’s. It just doesn't work that way. This is a clear example of invalidation. According to Dr. Jamie Long, “Invalidation is the process of denying, rejecting or dismissing someone’s feelings. Invalidation sends the message that a person’s subjective emotional experience is inaccurate, insignificant, and/or unacceptable.” 2020 has been a tough year for many of us, which means thoughts and emotions are all over the place. At a time of crisis, being supportive of one another is extremely important. In most scenarios, we do not invalidate others on purpose. Invalidation is subtle. That is why we need to train ourselves to become more observant and empathetic. However, validation certainly does not mean you have to see completely eye-to-eye with the other person; it simply means that you are recognizing their emotions and allowing them to process a situation through their subjective perception. I want you to imagine this: Your close friend loses a straw-woven bracelet on a trip and starts sobbing in anguish. To you, that bracelet is just a roughly-done wrist decoration worn at the edges. Therefore, you casually toss out a “it’s just a bracelet, jeesh”. However, what you don’t know is that this bracelet was made by her younger sister for your friend’s birthday 5 years ago and has been treasured ever since. To your friend, this bracelet has special meaning. Without knowing it, you’ve dismissed her sadness about losing this prized possession that holds great significance. It is impossible to know how everyone is feeling at all times - this is why we need to be mindful of our words and how we interact with those around us. As humans, we have a tendency to project our personal emotions and logic onto other people’s problems. It is completely normal and happens unconsciously. So instead of addressing a situation from your point of view right off the bat, ask questions and try to think in the other person’s shoes. Don’t go off with the “I don’t think it’s that bad” or the “I’ve seen worse” or the “just ignore it”, because there are all phrases that represent how YOU perceive an issue that does not impact YOU. Alternatively, inquire how the other person is feeling in regard to the problem and try to understand why they feel that way. After you think you have a solid understanding of what they think, provide them with support and comfort in a validating way. Always understand before you intervene! Try to say things along the lines of “I see where you are coming from” and “that must be hard for you”, then continue by asking them what you can do to make them feel better. At this point, do not, I repeat, do not, give unsolicited advice. Yes, I know, you’ve got to resist that savior complex. If the other person would like some advice, feel free to put your two cents in. But if they just need a shoulder to cry on, assume the role of a listener. All people want sometimes is to feel as though their emotions matter, and they do! We are all guilty of using our own mindsets to try and solve other people’s problems, causing us to overstep our boundaries at times, myself included! In conversation, ask and comprehend before you judge and comment. I’m not saying you need to walk on eggshells around everyone; I am simply advising you all to try a different response that does not immediately invalidate the feelings of the other. On that note, happy new year and start validating the people you love! - Eva Cover photo source: https://hbr.org/2018/10/ais-potential-to-diagnose-and-treat-mental-illness

There’s something about the constant beeping of cash registers, and the variety of goods stocked perfectly on tightly spaced shelves that makes Jason feel so serene. Today, his goal is to give back to the woman that has given so much to him. His mother wasn’t the most joyous person over his life choices. Yet, after striking out of culinary school, and through his struggle with alcohol and mental health issues, she was there. Now, a full year sober, it’s time to make right by her. By the time he’s reached the lines to pay, he does another check to make sure everything was in the cart. A message from his mom’s day time caretaker, Gabby, pings his phone. “Jay… out of soy sauce can you get?” After confirming, and backtracking to grab a bottle he finds himself further down the line. By the time he makes it out of H Mart, it’s 3:22 in the afternoon. Jason unlocks his phone to see that the next train from Grand Central to Tuckahoe, the closest train station to his home in Yonkers leaves in eighteen minutes. Surprised, he does a double take. There’s only 17 minutes left now. The station is at least a 20 minute walk. Jay darts down the street. Sprinting under scaffolding, weaving around walkers, and getting yelled at by unaware pedestrians are no difficult tasks for a seasoned New Yorker. He cuts into Fifth Avenue. Four lanes of one-way traffic, hordes of tourists, and want-to-be influencers are just obstacles on the street. He jukes, jumps, dips, dodges, but nonetheless makes it to the station. Running saved him at least five minutes. He gets to the train car and just barely slides in before the announcer warns of the closing doors. Relief spreads across his body as sweat beads down his forhead; sprinting a mile to Grand Central Station in a puffy jacket will do that to you. He looks down to find his two bags stretched from swinging like the pendulum of an awfully fast grandfather clock. The conductor comes by to check tickets; Jason is prepared with his in hand. He mentally checks out, daydreaming to make the ride home bearable. He dreams of a time years ago. Before dropping out, even before the pandemic of 2020. He’s just a boy waking up in the middle of the night. Jason walks onto the cold, wood floor following a scent. He walks past the family pictures in the hallway, to the kitchen, almost floating as if it were carrying him to the source. His mother is standing by the stove stirring a pot of soup, tasting it every so often. “Na-nay… What is that smell?” “It’s Guk, Jason. Galbi-tang, a Korean soup. It’s good for you, makes you stronger when you’re weak.” Jason can’t help but revel in the sensory overload. “So, it’s not Filipino?” Jason’s mother shakes her head in disagreement. “No, Jason. Your grandfather taught me this dish. I make it, and I think of him… There’s onion, radish, scallions, garlic, black peppercorns, soy sauce, and tender short rib. It’s been simmering for hours now, so the meat is so soft. Here, I want you to try it.” She dips the ladle into the soup, scrapes the bottom of it on the edge of the pot, and brings it down to Jason’s mouth. He can’t believe how good it smells. He blows on the soup to cool it down and goes in for the sip. Jason wakes up to a buzzing notification on his phone letting him know to get off at the next stop. He can nearly taste the soup in his mouth, even if it is just the essence of a memory. He gets off the train and makes his way to his rundown car. The back bumper hanging on by a few clips. A constant reminder that he’s broke and a bad driver. He makes the 10-minute drive home. The roads are lined with half melted snow, dirtied from being scraped off the asphalt. The difference between New York City and Yonkers is night and day. The city of dreams versus the town of reality. Nonetheless, they both stand frozen in the Northern air. On the way there, he sees the local high school lacrosse team practicing in a field. Jason was a prime prospect to play goalie. His broad yet, condensed frame made him an ideal player to stop any attempts to score. If it weren’t for his mom keeping him from playing after his concussion, there is no telling where he would be today. He finally parks his car in the driveway and steadily walks up the old and slippery wooden steps to the front door, ingredients in hand. The entrance into his house includes a closet with a shoe rack on one side, and a narrow table with a mirror above it on the other. The runner points into the living room with untouched leather couches and an untuned piano. There’s a den parallel to the front door. The den where Jason once played with toys as a boy and avoided as a teen, now holds a hospital bed that his mother spends day and night on. Gabby is packing up her things before leaving for the evening. She passes Jason on the way out. “How’s she doing?” “Okay lang. All day she talked about your dad, and how she wishes she could dance with your father again.” They exchange weak smiles. Jason never got to know his dad. All he knows of him are from stories that were told on All Saint’s Day. His family used to be so active then, but over the years they just stopped visiting New York. “Her cough suppressant is on her bedside, make sure she takes it before she sleeps okay?” Jason agrees and holds the door for her as she heads out. Jason heads over to his mom. “Nay… How are you nay? I got all the ingredients to make you something special tonight. Just wait okay? I want it to be a surprise.” His mom begins to respond before she starts coughing. Jason drops his bags and jumps over to his mom to rub her back and hold her hand. “Nay, it’s okay. Just rest.” She kisses his hand and he walks back to the kitchen. Jason makes his way past the stairs to the kitchen. He pulls out a knife, a cutting board, a stock pot, and places them next to the rest of the ingredients. Jason boils the meat to create the base for the soup. It simmers with chopped vegetables and spices. By the time the soup finishes the only light in the kitchen is the one above the stove. The smell fills the air and travels around the house. He lifts off the top and a plume of steam erupts. Jason couldn’t be any more excited. He dips a spoon into the stock. It’s slightly brown but still very much transparent. The first taste is met with disappointment. It’s just not the same; he’s left unsatisfied. He tastes again but, he can’t put his finger on it. The soy sauce is sitting in the plastic bag, new and still wrapped. He slaps his forehead in disbelief; how could something so essential be forgotten! He removes the wrapper and places a swirl of soy sauce into the soup. Jason covers it back up and lets it simmer for another half hour. After setting a timer on his phone and putting in some earbuds, he sits head down at the dining table patiently waiting for the time to pass. His eyes shoot open to the loud alarm blaring in his ears and hurries to the pot. His tasting spoon at the ready, but again it’s unfulfilling. Something is still missing, so he puts a little bit of the broth into a bowl and brings it to his mom to taste. Her room is dark, it has to be close to midnight, but Jason doesn’t realize it. The smell brings his mom out of a light sleep. “Nay, I made your favorite soup. I want you to taste it. I just can’t figure out what’s lacking.” His mom is barely awake but is able to give a response between coughs, “Jay, it’s late already. Save some for me for tomorrow okay? Put it in the fridge, you should never waste good food.” Jason complies and sets the soup down on the side table. The cough medicine stares back at him; he pours the syrup into the cup and gets her to swallow the dose. He drapes a blanket over her and up to her shoulders. The space heater is in the corner of the room, threatening to sound an alarm the moment it’s a degree off balance. The knob on top activates the coils and they begin to glow, a slight burning odor dissipates into the room. With the bowl of soup in one hand and his mother’s in the other, he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. The room around them tells countless stories of their home. Birthday parties and family gatherings that once captivated the room seem so distant now. “Good night Nay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She softly holds his hand between hers before letting him go. He puts her bowl of soup into the fridge, and lets the pot cool down before putting it into the fridge too. At this point it’s close to 2 am. Jason slowly makes his way upstairs to sleep the night away, he whispers goodnight before turning off the lights. Jason wakes up and it’s close to midday. Gabby is rocking him awake. She’s sniffling and calling on him to wake up. Finally, up and coherent, Gabby says the words Jason has been dreading to hear for months. “Your mom Jay. She’s⎯ she’s gone.” Every memory he shared with her is now exclusive to him. Every “I love you” and “I’m proud of you” now muted. Still in yesterday’s attire, he hurries downstairs. She’s there, laying on her back with her hands intertwined on her chest. There’s a tightness forming in his. The thought of being alone is now a reality. This is his childhood home, but the innocence has faded. For months after her diagnosis, he built walls to protect himself. This moment was inevitable, yet no amount of preparation can get someone ready for this. Each brick slowly tumble down exposing Jason barren and vulnerable. His arms envelop her with repentance for years of timidness. By the time Jay returns home from the funeral his mailbox is bulging from various student loan companies warning about their calls to collect. He untucks his shirt and undoes the top button after loosening his tie, removing his shoes at the door looking defeated. He’s followed inside by Gabby. They walk in and pass the empty room parallel to the entrance hall. He can’t help but stop and stare into the void. It’s almost like every movie night and family gathering never happened there. The once lively events now shadowed and forgotten. Gabby puts her hand on his shoulder and picks at the pilling fabric. “Let's go into the kitchen Jay, you need to eat.” It’s been a day and a half since Jason last ate, but he doubts anything can fill the hole within him. The fridge is desolate. Among the only things left is the stock pot and bowl for his mom. The soup that was once so important to him, now sits idle and cold. In the back of the fridge is a can of beer. There’s no telling how old. No one has drank in this house for months. He reaches into the fridge and his hand strays towards the can. The words of his mother echo in his head, “You should never waste good food.” He takes out the bowl he saved for her and puts it into a pot to boil, adding a serving for himself. After transferring the soup into a thermos, he places it into a bag with a set of bowls and spoons. He drives back to the graveyard where nanay was just buried. The sun refused to shine through the bare tree branches. Music on the radio turned to static. Sidewalks were lonely and store fronts seemed nearly abandoned. Yonkers is reduced to a stale, and dreary place. The grass crunches beneath his feet as one is placed after the other on the way to nanay’s space. After unpacking the bag, he pours out soup into each bowl, making sure to include a chunk of spare rib and some vegetables. He sits and drinks his soup with the other bowl in front of the headstone. There’s no crying or conversations. Just silently eating, like how dinner often was with his mom. The soup is different. It’s perfect, all the flavors are collectively there. The broth is rich and deeply colored yet somehow still clear, green onions spot the surface. Each sip brings back a memory with his mom, it makes him laugh or sniffle, warming him between shivers. Soon enough, he reaches the bottom of the bowl. For Jason, it’s hope, because he knows he’ll never truly be without his mom. She’s there in the moments they shared. After a bleak and sorrowful winter, the colorful world he once knew, is beginning to bloom once again. He places his bowl back into the bag with the thermos, getting back on his feet. The way her name was cut into the stone next to his dad’s seems so deep. Nothing is said for a while. He breaks his silence by quietly speaking with a cracking voice. “Thank you, nay. I’ll see you later.” He walks away. The other bowl of soup stayed by the headstone, the steam slowly fading into the air. - Raphael Ofendo Reyes I took a creative writing class last Fall and I didn't consider writing a piece on Asian culture until we were assigned Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu. I don't know if I felt validation, or recognized, but I wanted to help other people feel the same way. I also wrote this because I love to cook, especially for my loved ones. Sometimes I can't always talk out exactly how I'm feeling and cooking does all the talking for me. Biography: Raphael was born in the Philippines and lived there until his family moved to South Carolina when he was three. He lived most of life in SC on the coast before moving to the State's capitol, Columbia, for college. He studies public health and political science and hopes to continue paving the way for Asian Americans in SC as the first program coordinator for the SC Commission for Minority Affair's AAPI Affairs Division. Cover Photo Source: https://dribbble.com/tags/asian_food Instagram: @rofendo77

From the girls who would snicker behind my back To the boys who would cover their noses There was always a reason to lose my focus From the me who would always cower behind their gazes Even a teacher who said straight up to my face "I can smell you from miles away" She didn't even hesitate To the me who thought to have an ally Even adults can drown in their torturous cries "You smell like curry" "You should bathe" "Go back to your country" "I would rather take a fish out on a date" Small words that held the world A price to pay for thinking I belonged In the sea of blue that I thought to be my song My red seeped through my perfect stature Methods of locking my culture in were lackluster I don't want to be called "Curry Girl" Who cried when a teacher said she smelled As there is nothing worse than being an outcast But it was a small price to pay when your family is known to fast The poem I wrote called "You Smell Like Curry" highlights my experience as a South Asian attending a school where I was known to be the only Bengali person. People often commented on the way I smelled because my mother cooked traditional dishes such as curry to feed my family and the smell of those dishes seeped on to my clothes. In the poem, I use crafts such as dialogue, imagery, symbolism, repetition, and end-stopped lines to elevate how people of my culture get comments like this all the time, but the hurtful discrimination is not acknowledged. Biography: Hello, my name is Subita Sania. I am a South Asian tenth grader who goes my the pronouns or she/her and I love to read and write. Although, I do not believe myself to be quite talented in these areas, I think they are great ways to express myself and my identity especially as a Bengali young women living in a neighborhood with mostly white people. My identity is often marginalized, disregarded or put in a box and because of this, I feel eager to express my identity through these pieces and feel encouraged by the Dear Asian Youth committee to do so as well. Cover Photo Source: Buzzfeed.com

Farmers from the nearby states of Punjab, Haryana, and Uttar Pradesh are organizing on a national level to protest the agricultural policies set forth by the BJP. Arriving both on tractors and on foot in India’s capital New Delhi. Farmers and their families have been blocking roads, setting makeshift camps in New Delhi according to organizers. Police have put up barriers and dug up roads to prevent protesters from coming into the city center to hold sit-ins. Police fired tear gas and water cannons to stop the protesters from entering the city. The farmers are protesting a law introduced by the BJP and the Prime Minister of India, Narendra Modi. The laws, passed in September, Narendra Modi says will give farmers more autonomy to set their own prices and sell directly to private businesses, such as supermarket chains. The move has enraged farmers saying that the law would make it open season for big corporations to exploit the farmers. For decades, the Indian government has offered guaranteed prices to farmers for certain crops, providing long-term certainty that allows them to make investments for the next crop cycle. Under the previous laws, farmers were to sell their goods at auction at their state's Agricultural Produce Market Committee. At these auctions, they were guaranteed at least the government-agreed minimum price. There were restrictions on who could purchase at auction and prices were capped for essential commodities. Modi’s new laws would disassemble the committees, allowing farmers to sell their goods to anyone for any price. Farmers would have more freedom to sell to anyone with the farmers’ set prices. However, farmers believe selling directly to big corporations could make it easier for the corporations to undervalue the crops. While farmers could sell crops at upraised prices if the demand is there, conversely, they could struggle to meet the minimum price at times when there is too much supply in the market. Agriculture is the prime source of livelihood for 58% of India’s population of 1.3 billion people. That's made farming a central political issue, with farmers arguing for years to get the minimum guaranteed prices increased. In 2014, then-candidate Modi promised federally backed minimum wages 50% higher than production costs in the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) general election manifesto. In 2016, Modi promised to boost the country's agriculture sector with a target of doubling the income of farmers by 2022. According to Ashutosh Mishra, the media coordinator of protest organizer All India Kisan Sangharsh Committee, which represents around 200 farming unions, promises made most definitely weren’t kept. The world is witnessing the largest protest in human history. Happening in the World's largest democracy; India. These farmers are protesting bills that would take away the federal (government) guaranteed prices, making it easier for big corporations to exploit the farmers. Biography: Tanveer Kaur is a first generation Indian-American. She is politically involved in both local and national politics. She is passionate about creating change to form a society where everyone is welcome. Instagram: @tannusaini25 Cover Photo Source: CNN

Dear Asian Youth, I’m sure that many of you are familiar with the statement: “When I was your age…” It is never a fun thing to hear. Whether you’re talking about school or hanging out with friends, this eye-rolling statement always makes its way into a conversation with parents. Of course, there are moments when this phrase is used in the right context, like when parents share genuine childhood memories that aren’t harmful nor destructive. This can include discussing childhood games they would play or their favorite snacks as a kid. But, here are some examples from personal experience that definitely do not adhere to that: “You know, when I was your age, if I didn’t know what I was doing on my homework, I would have to walk all the way to the library and READ books! You have the Internet at your fingertips; I don’t understand why you are so confused!” “Stop being so ungrateful! When I was your age, I had to wake up very early in the morning just to walk to school; that would take me an hour! And it would take me 2 HOURS to walk back home because it was uphill! So you better appreciate me driving you to school or else you would have been late by now.” “When I was your age, I knew when it was my time to speak and not to speak. If you talked to my parents the way you are talking to me right now, you wouldn’t be living under our house anymore. So shut it.” Just to name a few. These statements are harmful and invalidate children’s struggles. Our world has been constantly evolving. From technology to social norms, there is a clear gap between generations because of the clear contrast regarding the youth of today versus the youth from decades ago. Different struggles exist due to different experiences, and it is unfair for hardships to be compared. For example if I said, Ugh! My computer isn’t working and I can’t do my work! An inappropriate response to this would be: We didn’t even have computers when I was your age! We had to search through hundreds of pages in books, so stop whining. Though talking about childhood memories can be a nice way to bond with, educate, or entertain younger people, there are times when bringing them up is unnecessary and outright rude. When has living become a competition for who’s suffered more? What benefit does it hold? The mindset of using “When I was your age” on a regular basis enforces that accepting change is wrong, because if we’re stuck in the past, how can we address the new age’s problems if things are already “so much better?” Things should constantly be getting better and better, and we can achieve that by acknowledging the difficulties of the past without guilt tripping people using the privileges we have now against us. Languishing about how times were so much harder, quite frankly, does nothing to help our current problems. When used in the wrong context, the statement, “When I was your age,” can be very condescending and creates unneeded comparisons between parents and children. It minimizes the youth’s struggles and, quite frankly, there are many more constructive ways for parents to address scenarios where we are struggling or complaining about something, which can include trying to find ways to destress or even just listening to them. To put it simply, using this phrase can be incredibly emotionally damaging, as it establishes a sense of unachievable expectations and overwhelming pressure on children, causing us to grow up to become unconfident and ashamed when we don’t meet societal standards. There are countless resources out there about how families can have constructive conversations surrounding these topics, which you can here and here! And of course, actions must be taken after a parent is called out for doing this by their child. They must ensure that actual effort is put into ensuring that their kid feels that they can discuss their problems without fear of being reprimanded or criticized, so that this: “We didn’t even have computers when I was your age! We had to search through hundreds of pages in books, so stop whining.” Can grow into this! :) “I completely understand your frustration. Is there anything I could do to help?” - Julianne T. Cover Photo Source: KNKX

Jai Ganesh, jai Ganesh, jai Ganesh deva In her mind at least, the music anticipates, and so She clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, Intoning, imitating, the vivacious beats of the tabla The wavelengths of her mind humming along to the palpitations Within the temple doors And just as Kashibai did, she opens the door Eyes ostentatious, plumes of saffron dancing in Smoky air; her breath is deep, inhaling The granular fragrance of the temple As sticks of agarbatti burn in their clay pots She watches the capricious child, a lone dreamer Amidst the throngs, waddle and wade across fields of rangoli As his mother chases after him, curds-soaked hands gleefully Twirling around him, unfurling like the petals of an budding lotus Delighting the wandering eye As the temple bells chime, as the child is scooped up by his mother with a finality, And now looks around bewildered and lost, she knows it’s time, feels it in her heart-- The swell of one’s soul and spirit as the shenai’s trumpets blows; Heaven and earth and beyond, united across the skies and stars... The silken curtains shrouding Ganesh’s clay temple, unmasked Jai Ganesh, jai Ganesh, jai Ganesh deva oh! envisage-- pots of rosewater, milk, cream poured over divine clay Meandering liquids intertwined with the crescent moon Dovish and mechanical, practiced and preached Gold and silk and decades of blooms Garlands of tulsi and chrysanthemum Sweet scarfs of promise are draped over his neck Chains of gold and silver, networking across gilded chambers Seven gates, the flaps of eagles’ wings And caw of the preeing peacock, a kaleidoscope of colours Finding and found Transported… it remains unbeknownst to most As a dry, orange petal of the garland peels off... wilts and falls… into Ganesh’s open palms Safe the wide eyes and open mouth of a little dreamer Anklet jingling and trumpeting, who caught the sight This poem is inspired by a scene in the Bollywood film, Bajirao Mastani, in which the Indian festival, Ganesh Pooja, is celebrated. Ganesh Pooja is an important celebration, revolving around the Remover of Obstacles, the God Ganesh, and symbolising his arrival on earth. I hope you like it! Biography: Kirtan is a student of the Humanities in Hwa Chong Institution, Singapore. With a passion for writing, he serves as an editor for Cathartic Literature Magazine and a researcher for Thistle Topics. He enjoys curling up with a good Bollywood movie on rainy days, salt and vinegar crisps and a good book. Cover photo source: https://www.dnaindia.com/lifestyle/report-ganesh-chaturthi-2020-subh-muhurat-puja-vidhi-significance-all-you-need-to-know-about-the-festival-2838634

Dear Asian Youth, We are constantly reminded by beauty standards that we are supposed to have glass, porcelain, and youthful skin. We are told that there is no greater mistake than those that we make when we create blemishes, crevices, and imperfections in our skin. Asian people have been subjected to the media marketing of skin care and advertisements depicting women with poreless skin, most of which are more than difficult to achieve. In the age of facetune and incomprehensible expectations of our youth, it is easy for younger audiences to be susceptible to skin insecurity. We watch our favorite influencers back brands that have harmful chemicals and we buy them blindly because we are led to believe that we will achieve the skin texture that we see in professionally edited photos. Social media has made it unacceptable for those who have blemishes to feel welcomed to a society that constantly pushes images of perfection and smooth painted skin to push their capitalistic needs. Even though these images aren’t true to audiences, the public is sold versions of themselves that aren’t attainable. Within Asian culture especially, there is a large shame with having acne, and there is little support and encouragement that you will be able to seek within the community. Celebrities that many people strive to be more like are heavily influenced by the products that they have available to them, which the general public may not have equal access to. The gift of perfect skin is one that is generally accessed most by those who have larger incomes, who can spend more money on luxurious items for themselves. Though it is possible to achieve your perfect skin texture with just a few products, it is highly rare that you do. It is more often than not that someone will have to go through many different skin product combinations in order to find the routine that is the perfect fit. As the pressure builds to have picture perfect skin, so does the money that is required to buy products that will accomplish that goal. This is not to even begin to mention that many influencers and celebrities that are on social media have dermatologists that can cater to their needs as an individual, which those who do not have insurance can not cover for. The expectations that the general public has for themselves is an unrealistic idea that was solely implemented by the culture that was cultivated around them. The prominent use of facetune by celebrities and influencers has also created a world of unrealistic expectations. Younger audiences are made to believe that skin beauty is achieved overnight. Having photoshopped perfect skin continues to perpetuate the false narratives that younger people are to hold themselves to, and that it is the beauty standard to live up to those images of perfect skin. By being upfront with an audience about one’s skin struggles, it will create a relatable conversation that many teens and young adults can feel they are comfortable with. I have always struggled with having acne and skin ever since I started middle school. I was met with lots of criticism from my Asian parents and family, who have continued their comments to the present day, almost 7 years later. They comment on what products to use, how I should wash my face more, to use more products, to use less products, and all of the statements that I have heard one time or another. This is probably common among many Asian families, as they want their children to meet their standard. However, the consistent pressure and negativity can generate skin insecurity that may last longer than the blemishes they seek to criticize. I have always been insecure about how my skin looked. I decided that the only thing that could help me was makeup, which is why everyday of senior year, I wore a full face of makeup to school. Even when inconvenient, I would at least put on a concealer to cover the pimples that had made my face their home for the week. Though I am much more comfortable with not wearing makeup everyday, those comments that I have received about having pimples continue to haunt me all these years later. I have never been able to find products that have eliminated my skin problems. As an Asian American, I feel that we have put a large portion of our criticism on those that have imperfect skin, which is largely undeserved. No one’s skin is the same, and there is no single solution to getting the skin texture you want. The judgement that comes with skin imperfection from specifically the Asian American community has come largely undeserved, and the value that is set by society should not be completely representative of what a person is worth. - Joshlyn This piece is about how social media and Asian American culture can wrongly pressure and criticize youth based on their acne, and the struggles of growing up as someone who has blemishes on their face. Biography: My name is Joshlyn Khuu and I am an 19 year old college student from Anaheim, CA currently studying Political Science at the University of California, Riverside. I hope you enjoyed reading my writing! If you want to follow me on my socials, my Instagram is @joshlynkhuu! Instagram: @joshlynkhuu Cover photo source: https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/2016/06/114494/makeup-artist-acne-experience

As fireworks exploded over the United States Capitol Mall to Katy Perry’s “Fireworks” on January 20th, CNN’s Van Jones declared that it was “A display of what America can be.” Many of us let out a sigh of relief as Trump quietly left the White House and President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris were sworn into office a few hours later on the steps of the Capitol. Just two weeks prior, on January 6th, we saw those same steps desecrated by a violent fascist mob of Trump supporters who were goaded on by many GOP lawmakers and Trump himself. While we have still yet to see Trump and his allies face legal consequences, the inauguration was, in many ways, a moral repudiation of the horrendous acts that had occurred just days before. Biden’s inauguration was historically unlike any inaugurations before due to 2021’s unique circumstances. Flags filled the National Mall to represent the many people who would not be allowed to attend due to the pandemic, and over 20,000 National Guard Troops patrolled the premises in light of several threats of violence following the January 6th Capitol storming. The administration and inaugural committee still ensured that people across the country would be able to partake in the celebration. The evening segment titled “Parade Across America” hosted by Tom Hanks featured many artists and celebrities as well as regular citizens who had done extraordinary things in the past year. In the hour and a half show, we saw a celebration of the United States’ cultural and creative diversity. We saw video montages of students and musicians from all fifty states. My favorite hidden gem was Justin Timberlake walking out of Stax records (the birthplace of soul music) to perform in the streets of Memphis, Tennessee. The scenes were a stark reminder of what the last four years wanted us to forget. From Trumpism to emboldened white supremacy, racial division to police brutality, the last four years exacerbated and brought to light everything wrong in the U.S. In that shroud of hatred and corruption, it quickly became apparent that the United States were no longer United. Right versus Left, conservative versus liberal: each one for themselves. After the events of the past 4 years, a message of unity, a message of decency, a message of a celebration of people and humanity feels almost like a rebellion, a repudiation, of the steadfast direction of where our country was heading. But we still have a long way to go. When Obama was sworn into office in 2008, it was a historic run. Our nation's first Black President. A lot of people who would be now considered incredibly ignorant said that we had reached a “post-racial era” solely because we had a Black person as president. The Obama era ushered in a time of progressive change for the nation: the implementation of Obamacare and a public option in healthcare; the actual implementation of DACA, and a push for immigration reform. All while having a president whose style - from his signature way of speaking to his stature - was undeniably different from presidents before. For many, Obama signaled a new age in this country. An age of progressiveness and change. Yet under that guise of progressivism, was a rising tide of white supremacy and divisive party politics. This became apparent in 2013 when Obama lost his democratic majority in the House, and then in 2015 when he lost the majority in the Senate as well. In those four years, going through crisis after crisis, from natural disasters to domestic terrorism, the U.S. government became gridlocked. Bills would be drafted, but die in Congress. Policies would be written but never get anywhere. Congresspeople would vote along party lines and failure to compromise became a major issue. Meanwhile, the American people became more and more frustrated at the growing inaction and wanted change. Fast forward to 2016,and the rise of Donald Trump. After four years of governmental gridlock, a political outsider became a candidate. Trump, a reality TV star, and member of the New York Elite, with no previous political experience announced his run for Presidency. The ill-spoken, brash, and seemingly un-presidential candidate was seen as a joke at first, but quickly rose through the ranks in the Republican primaries as he fear mongered, attacked, gaslighted, and scapegoated both his Republican competitors and many BIPOC groups in the U.S. and abroad. This seemingly ill-suited man wasn’t taken seriously at all as the Democratic party decided to nominate Hilary Clinton, hoping to run on the historic notion of having a woman for president, while presenting a more “establishment” politician that would continue Obama Era politics of progressive change to an extent. I think what many failed to realize was how divided the U.S. really was in that moment. Whether it was frustration over partisan politics, or the deeply racist reaction to having a black man as president, people saw Trump as a person who would “shake things up,” a person who would be able to “drain the swamp.” And no doubt in the four years following that would be the result. In January 2017, Donald Trump was officiated and sworn in as the 45th President of the United States even after losing the nation’s popular vote. His win reflected years of overlooked issues and systemic failures within the country. From losing the popular vote by an unprecedented margin to his first 100 days in office, over the next four years, Trump would desecrate the office of the presidency, both in policy and morality. In his first 100 days in office, Trump rolled back many of his predecessors policies: trade deals, climate agreements, and executive orders. He allowed controversial projects such as the Keystone Pipeline the resources to continue, repealed or harshly criticized many Obama era environmental regulations. He implemented a “travel ban” from majority Muslim countries in West Asia, and also began a crusade on “illegal” immigration, implementing policies that would put millions of people living in the U.S. in legal jeopardy over their ability to remain in the country. Meanwhile, Trump would stoke the flames of racial division and misinformation. His remarks sowed division including the times he refused to condemn white supremacy, and called Mexicans “murderers and rapists.” In the past year, his remarks calling COVID-19 the 'China virus' and 'Kung Flu,' lead to several attacks on the Asian American community, while increasing racial division. In his four years as president, according to the Washington Post, “Trump made over 30,573 false claims. Nearly half came in his final year.” This malicious use of lies was inherently harmful to the American People as it distorted reality and drew his supporters away from being able to rationalize the truth. From touting conspiracy theories, to sowing mistrust in the Government, Trump did his best to expose every issue within the U.S. not by fixing it, but by exacerbating the problem and using it for his own personal gain at times. The events of 2020 could not be a more fitting end to Trump's chaotic and destructive four years in office. His refusal to place a national response to the Covid-19 pandemic, caused hospitals to begin to fill, and hundreds of thousands of Americans to die needlessly. He stoked the flames of violence and hatred when Black Lives Matter protests took to the streets as a response to years of unchecked police brutality and racial violence, ordering tear gas to be used on peaceful demonstrations in D.C. while still failing to address any of the issues at hand. Even in the dying days of his presidency, Trump went on to rush the confirmation of a Supreme Court Judge after the Passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg (meanwhile Congress failed to provide any pandemic relief to the American people in months) cementing a conservative majority in the court. He would also attack our democratic institutions, alleging mass voter fraud and sowing distrust in our elections that would lead to a fascist mob of his supporters storming the Capitol. And in the dying days of his presidency, he would grant clemency and pardons to many of his political allies and cronies that had been locked up for serious crimes both domestically and abroad. Trump and the Republican party desecrated the government. Both literally and figuratively desecrated the office of the presidency and any honor held within our governing institutions. He left people in power that will go on to make decisions likely for decades to come and amplified many of the issues that our country faces. For four years, whether we liked it or not, Trump took us on his trainwreck of a presidency where all common decency and respect for one another was thrown out. any lost hope in their nation and where we as a people were going. And this was Trump's goal:o make us forget. To make us feel hopeless. If we forget our humanity, then Trump wins. When BIPOC communities are divided, Trump wins. When people become split along party lines, Trump wins. But on November 7th, 2020 Trump did not win. On November 7th, Joe Biden was declared the winner of the 2020 Presidential Election. On January 5th, Trump did not win. On January 5th, Jon Ossoff and Raphael Warnock were elected to the Senate in competitive races against David Perdue and Kelly Loefler, both allies to Trump, and whom Trump campaigned for days before the race. Trump lost. But Trumpism is still here. From the fascist mob at the Capitol, to his allies in the House and Senate. Trumpism is something we will have to deal with for years to come. If we manage to denounce and repudiate his legacy and rhetoric when it comes up, then Trump's legacy will have ended the day he left office. If we let his supporters or allies continue to come to positions of power and fail to hold them accountable, then Trumpism will be a cancer that will continue to spread and eventually bring down the democratic institutions of the U.S. On January 20th, Joe Biden was sworn in as President. In his inauguration speech he called for unity. But there is no unity without accountability. While America is a beautifully diverse country with a rich history from the Native Americans to the many Immigrant communities that came to call this place home, we also have a deep history of division and racial divide. Trump took advantage of this, but the problem was already there. Biden’s parade across America was a little reminder that there is still beauty within our country, but as Van Jones said, it's “A display of what America can be.” While we have a lot of work ahead to achieve what America Can Be, We must remember to still celebrate the little victories and triumphs, and then get up, and continue the fight for Liberty and justice for all. Sources: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/113th_United_States_Congress https://www.npr.org/2017/04/24/520159167/trumps-100-day-action-plan-annotated https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/how-fact-checker-tracked-trump-claims/2021/01/23/ad04b69a-5c1d-11eb-a976-bad6431e03e2_story.html https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/15/us/politics/trump-charlottesville-white-nationalists.html Cover Photo Source: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/09/how-america-lost-its-mind/534231/

Tumbling down a spiral filled with war, Bullets hitting my bones and Ringing in my ears, All because you two cannot stop Playing with your guns. The fires each of you carry are heavy and ferocious, But cannot tame itself any further Since what’s been said has been said And what’s been done has been done. For you two to leave each other –– easier said Than done –– would need so much more Effort than pulling out the bruises and scars And reliving those moments again. You’re together for me, but I’d rather Feel peace in the empty rooms and sunshine On my face. So, with my only shield being my Duvet blanket that can only barely Cover the rumbling whispers outside my door, I’m crying in my bedroom alone In the darkness, sobbing as silently as I can. Cover Photo Source: Oprah.com

“Seb, before we can play The Sims, you have to do the dishes!” I dragged myself downstairs, reluctant to submerge my hands in the myriad of ceramics sitting in that dreaded stainless steel sink. I had already slept the day away; why should I get something done now of all times? If I do these dishes, I might miss a text from somebody, I thought. I might not get to play The Sims 4 because of those dishes. Maybe these dishes will take all night. Maybe I won’t be able to get enough rest for the first day back at school. Maybe I won’t be able to finish my homework. Wait, did I have homework? I groaned: “Might as well get it over with.” Feet pounding on the linoleum floor and landing on the crimson woven rug, I hurriedly cleared the counter, carried around bags of produce and quickly swiped the powdered coffee creamer off of the dark granite counters before positioning myself in front of the sink. So first, we rinse. I jostled the faucet, ice-cold water spitting from its mouth. I bathed each dish in the sputtering stream, granules of freezing water adhering to my oversized t-shirt. The dishes began to pile up on the counter; a stack of white bowls stood in the corner of my eye as I channeled my focus towards the profusion of silver spoons and forks. Kudzu of short glass cups sat to my right as I washed each utensil clean. Seconds later, the ceramics that besieged me from the sink had turned into a fallen empire that I had conquered, precariously teetering between peace and disaster. Next, we start the actual cleaning. I squeezed out a drop of Dawn onto the blue sponge and ran it under the small spurt of water. I handled each dish, running the sponge through every crevice and folding it over the brim of every cup and bowl. Not gonna lie, I have an affinity for certain dishes. For example, there’s a white bowl that’s the perfect shape and depth, and these glasses fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, and— Is Christina playing The Sims right now? That exact thought abruptly entered my serene mindset and disrupted my rhythm. I need to hurry. I bumped up the faucet a little more, the stream turning from a gentle flow to a hasty beam. I felt that this was not enough; I decided to push the faucet as far back as possible. The faucet was a gun shooting out bullet after bullet, and I matched my speed to the quick gunfire of the pipe. I had just begun working around the rim of some stunning plates that my mom bought in Florida. I clumsily placed one on the counter, hurrying to finish washing up before my arm nudged the stack of glasses that sat to my right. A loud crash penetrated through the atmosphere; millions of fragments lay at my feet as they collided with the tiles, and I quickly became a knight surrounded by the carnage of several glass cups. I had just begun to develop a swift cadence doing the chore, but that moment caused my inclination to evaporate into thin air and left me loathing the act more than I ever had before. I instinctively ran towards the large door that led to the garage and grabbed the broom that read “Baguio” on its plastic green handle and the dustpan in an adjacent hue. I crouched to the floor and scooped the shards into the dustpan with a cursory sweeping motion. To ensure that the area was “clear,” I gave the broom one more scrappy run under the counters and called it a night. I no longer had the motivation to play The Sims 4; I had already spent my night fulfilling my own duties, so I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night caring for somebody else’s needs, let alone one made of pixels. Instead, I opted for my happy place: the shower. At least I could wash away what had happened, like I had washed away the mess from the plates. But as I started forward, I felt a shard of glass immediately pierce my bare foot. I thought I had cured any possibility of a glass-afflicted ailment, but my rush to accomplish more tasks in the shortest time possible turned into scars and wounds. There was nothing I could do but stand on one foot and scream in silence, but I soon picked the gravel-sized piece of glass out of the bottom of my foot and discarded it into the void of the trash can. As my little fit came to an end, a number of dishes still sat on the counter. I almost refused to continue washing up, but the job needed to be done. So I did it. I turned the sink on again and cleaned up, a new abundance of care in my actions. And as I continued doing so, I came across my favorite Reese’s mug. It was a party favor from one of my best friends, Lydia; perfect shape, size, etc.—I could go on and on about this mug. And I soon realized that mug would be there in the morning to house a flavorsome serving of french vanilla chai; I could even visualize myself pouring in a heaping helping of milk and watching the dark liquid swirl into a light, warm tan. And don’t even get me started on a good old plate of adobo; it’s almost like my own ambrosia. Whenever I did end up taking my shower, the deluge struck my scalp soothingly, gluing my coarse hair to my face. The shower is almost curative for me. I always feel a sense of tranquility every time I stand under the warm outflow, and while this feeling is temporary, there’s something about the act that causes time to halt and compels me to stand there with interminable delight. I just let the water run and stood in one spot, my feet cemented to the floor. I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was the water. I just happily rolled along, extensively mending myself and enjoying the process as I did so. The next morning, I opened the cabinet and took out my beloved Reese’s mug. I filled it about halfway with tap water and popped it in the microwave for two minutes. When the little chamber beeped, I pulled out the mug and dropped a bag of french vanilla chai in it, awaiting the delicacy that took time to assemble but was always worth it in the end. And just minutes later, I stood there, sipping away at the sweet pale brown liquid that blew steam in my face. For me, joy is found in the moment. I’ve realized that I need to take my time in the present because the future is, well, the future; there was a sense of peace when I was washing the dishes, so why was I hurrying away from serenity when I was perfectly fine in the moment? What I’ve learned is that you should never rush; otherwise, you could shatter a fraction of your life. And when this aspect inevitably hits the floor and transforms into a pile of despair, you have to take your time cleaning it up; otherwise, you could end up getting even more hurt. A shower is basically the human equivalent of washing the dishes—you clean yourself up and prepare for whatever comes your way. Nobody wants to be dirty white they’re living life, so you have to take your time and get ready for whatever is next in your life. Time is only fleeting if you don’t make the most of it. So for now, I’ll merrily continue my thirty-minute-long showers, and when the water turns cold, I’ll get out, brew myself a large cup of chai, and know that I’m ready to move along with life. - Sebastian Paragas Cover Photo Source: https://www.jamesrosenquiststudio.com/?q=node/247

Dear Asian Youth, Yes. Let’s talk about it. The monochrome moment at Biden’s inauguration from the respective ladies. First, Vice President Kamala Harris. Harris wore a beautiful purple dress, a nod to Shirley Chisholm who ran for president in 1972, and Harris’s sorority sisters, Alpha Kappa Alpha. Next, former first lady, Michelle Obama, was decked head to toe in a plum-burgundy turtleneck sweater, bootcut pants, and a structured coat, finishing it off with one of Sergio Hudson’s handmade leather belts. Finally, First Lady Dr. Jill Biden dawned a blue wool-tweed dress with a Swarovski pearl neckline and a chiffon skirt, paired with a complementary blue mask. Later that night, during the inaugural ball, she wore a cashmere coat embroidered with flowers representing every state and territory, which also featured a quote from Benjamin Franklin “Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn”, all designed by Gabriela Hearst. There is no doubt that these ensembles are not only fashion statements, but also setting the stage for America. The choice of colors and why they have become so iconic have everything to do with the meanings and hopes they carry. In addition to the homage to Harris’s sorority and Chisholm, the color purple is a nod to the early 20th Century women’s suffrage movement, royalty, sophistication, and creativity. Christopher John Rogers II, Louisiana-based designer, noted he wanted the piece to “craft something that radiated confidence and a personal sense of style while also remaining classic, comfortable, and precisely tailored”. For such a historic moment, the dress captured the audience and stood out amongst the crowd with its popping color. Finishing off, she wore numerous pearl and diamond pieces of jewelry, with designers ranging from Chanel to Breguet, including a Wilfredo Rosado elliptical link chain necklace- crafted of Akoya pearls, diamonds and yellow gold. Next is Michelle Obama. Hudson, who also designed Vice President Harris’s shoes for the inaugural day, decked the former First lady in a powerful yet elegant look, topped off with her wavy, voluminous hair. The dark red signifies willpower, leadership and courage -- all things she had hoped to convey in support of Harris. Miranda Koop, Obama’s stylist, wrote “What I want to convey most, though, is that this particular outfit is about the woman wearing it more than anything… She has taken a look at the rule book and turned the page. She leads, she inspires and she slays”. Koop also noted that she and Hudson knew they wanted Obama in pants, noting their flexibility, mobility, and practicality. Combined, it commanded power and attention in a classy and dynamic manner, capturing the eyes of many. In essence, First Lady Dr. Jill Biden’s outfit can be best described as one to "signify trust, confidence, and stability”, as a representative for designer Markarian noted. Her custom ocean-blue dress and overcoat were dressed with a dark-blue velvet collar and cuffs added a classic flair to her coat. Following the inauguration, the internet linked her to Cinderella and her flowy blue ball gown. Historically, the shade of blue is known for health, healing, tranquility, understanding, perhaps a way of signifying to the public the control and calmness the Biden administration would address the COVID-19 pandemic. She later changed into a white coat and had embroidered state flowers placed along the organza bodice and sleeves. The Delaware state flower was positioned purposefully above Biden's heart. Underneath was a sheer shouldered gown carrying the motif of the state flowers along the neckline and sleeves. The white symbolizes purity and female solidarity, as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez had done earlier that month. In essence, the unique messages they conveyed, all the women represented their dreams and aspirations for the new administration and what it would bring. Each made a unique statement, and set a precedent for what they would provide to the American table, whether it be political or moral. - Allison Li Cover Photo Source: The Philadelphia Inquirer